


Lemon Pie and Coffee

by Iben



Category: Taboo (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 14:49:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10515930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iben/pseuds/Iben
Summary: The bell jingles and she sees him out of the corner of her eye. She doesn't need to turn her head, she'd recognize that bow-legged gait anywhere, but she does anyway and watches him take a seat by the window.





	

There is a small bell above the door. It jingles every time a customer arrives, or leaves. Every day, all day, Lorna listens to that jingle. Pour the coffee, wipe the counter until it shines, refill the sugar bowls on the laminated table tops. 

The big windows overlook a wide stretch of road, but some days she finds herself at the end of her shift and realizes she has no idea if it's raining or if the sun is shining outside. Some days she finds herself at the end of her shift with no idea how she got there, where the hours went and her aching feet the only proof that they have passed. She never knows if those are good days or bad ones. 

The bell jingles and she sees him out of the corner of her eye. She doesn't need to turn her head, she'd recognize that bow-legged gait anywhere, but she does anyway and watches him take a seat by the window. 

She waits a moment for someone else to take his order, but no one does, so she walks up to his table, slips her notepad from the pocket of her apron and poses the pencil above an empty page. He turns the menu over, it's only two sides, the back and front of a grease-stained piece of cardboard.

“Um... what's good?” he asks. 

Nothing is good. 

“The lemon pie,” she says. 

He grunts something that could mean anything. She waits, but her impatience gets the better of her. 

“One piece of lemon pie,” she says as she writes it down on her pad. “And coffee?” She writes that down too, without waiting for an answer, and puts a sharp period at the end of it, the pencil hitting the paper with a loud smack. He glances up at her just as she turns away. 

She waits in the kitchen as the pie spins in the microwave. 

“That your husband out there?” Patricia the chef asks, even though she knows it is.

Lorna nods. 

There were evil rumors about her. People said she fucked old man Delaney when she was his nurse slash housekeeper. The talk intensified when she married James. Probably because it fit the profile they had of her as a gold digger; when she didn't succeed with the old man she went after the son. As if there were any gold to be found at that ramshackle farm.

Acting as if you don't hear, don't care, every day, all day, takes its toll. She wants to move away from here, but James says no. He has things to do, he says. 

The microwave pings and Lorna takes out the plate. She doesn't get him any whipped cream. 

Out in the diner nothing has changed. It's only been a minute. There are raindrops on the window behind James. She puts the plate and the coffee in front of him. He grabs her hand before she has a chance to leave. 

His hand is warm and calloused. It envelopes hers. His chest expands with a deep breath.

“Next year,” he says, in that deep rasp of his. “We'll move next year.”

Air flits through her nose, down into her lungs, back out again. Something itches at the back of her throat. 

This morning, as she drove to work, she pictured leaving him, the stubborn bastard. What does she even need him for? She earns her own living. Life would be easier without him, with nothing and no one to consider but herself. They hardly see each other anyway, often they don't even have dinner together in the evenings and it's been months since they had sex. Where is the passion in sharing a house, sharing grocery lists and bills? What's the point?

She meets his gaze. He's eleven years older than she is and there are faint lines around his eyes and creases on his brow that she does not yet have. She has seen photographs of him when he was younger and he was downright pretty, like a girl, to his own chagrin. 

She nods. Just when she thinks he doesn't understand anything, doesn't listen to a word she says, he surprises her. Like he's listened all along. She folds her fingers around his, squeezes a little. She takes a deep breath.

“You don't have to eat the pie,” she says. 

“Might as well.”

He picks up the fork, then pauses.

“Did you spit on it?” he says. 

She smiles. Can't help herself. 

“That's for me to know, and you to wonder,” she says. 

A small smile flits across his face. 

The bell jingles. A young couple. Backpackers by the look of them. 

“I have to work,” Lorna says and James nods. 

She takes a step back, walking backwards, her sneakers soundless against the floor. Beard, uncombed hair, the scar below his eye and that big nose. He's still beautiful. She loves him, in spite of herself, in spite of him, in spite of everything. There is no point, except she can't picture life without him. He's hers and she needs him to be just that. 

Next year. Maybe not much of a promise, but a promise all the same. She can live with it.

“See you at home,” she says.


End file.
